


pool halls and school halls

by sweetestsight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, Jazz Band AU, gratuitous paul bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 15:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: Freddie sighs so hard his bangs flutter. “Don’t you want to do something other than play rhythm for a mediocre school jazz band for the next two years?”It's hard to argue with that.Or Brian, Roger and John make up the exemplary rhythm section of an otherwise mediocre high school jazz band. The new kid in school has big plans for them. Unfortunately they're less than eager to play along.





	pool halls and school halls

**Author's Note:**

> I based this off my own experiences with school music programs in the States. I know that’s probably not accurate to the UK, but here are some key points in case you’re not familiar with how such things work out: 
> 
> -Bands are usually some brass instruments, a metric fuckton of saxophones who can also sometimes play clarinet, and then a rhythm section which is usually a standup bass, a jazz guitar, a piano and some drums.   
> -Students who are really talented/particularly motivated can form combos, which is usually a group of up to seven people who play whatever pieces they want and can compete in special competitions and things like that. It’s kind of a point of honor to be chosen for them and people get very competitive to be in a combo. Some people (usually endangered instrument players like bassists or trombonists) can become desirable commodities for these and end up in more than one.   
> -Jazz pieces have slots set aside for improv solos. These are also awarded as a point of privilege and honor. People brawl to get these slots. Some folks sweep them up and get like 10 each concert. These people are show ponies and everyone in the band hates them and their dumb 20 minute solos with a passion.

“You guys want to start a combo?”

John doesn’t even look up from his game of Candy Crush. “Why would we want to start a combo?”

Freddie sighs so hard his bangs flutter. “Why wouldn’t you? Don’t you want to do something other than play stand up bass in a mediocre school jazz band for the next two years?”

Their director bangs his baton impatiently against his podium. Well, his pen. The school had stopped supplying him with batons after he’d broken one too many doing exactly that. “Mr. Bulsara—”

“It’s Freddie.”

“Mr. Bulsara, while we’re thrilled to have you as the newest member of the band could you stop distracting the rest of the rhythm section and focus, please? We’re running Take Five.”

There’s a general grumble from the saxophone section as throughout the room papers rustle. Roger doesn’t blame them. They’re as tired of the piece as his own section is. Hell, he’d memorized his own part weeks ago.

So had Freddie, apparently.

“Don’t tell me you’re satisfied with this,” the pianist whispers across the gap between his stool and Roger’s own, not even bothering to wrestle his sheet music out of his bag. “Not you, with all your—” He gestures vaguely to his own hair.

“With my what?” Roger says angrily.

“You know! Don’t hide it. You’re rock and roll as they come! Don’t tell me you’re satisfied banging paint tools against a snare drum all day.”

“They’re wire brushes,” Roger says testily, “and they’re not even in this song, not that you’d care enough to actually know that.”

Freddie shoots him a glare. “You’re telling me you’ve never wanted a solo of your own?”

He’s got Roger there.

He almost misses his cue to come in, he’s so caught in it. Freddie shoots him a smirk, banging away on the opening riff boredly.

“What about you, Brian?” he whispers a moment later, his voice almost lost as the horns come in. “You want a solo, too?”

“Don’t distract me from this,” Brian says with a flat look.

“Distract you from what? You don’t even have a part. You’re just making it up.”

“And that’s why I need to focus.”

“What you need is to be appreciated for once.”

Roger rolls his eyes and throws a cymbal ornamentation onto the end of the measure before fucking Paul slides in with his fucking saxophone solo that lasts for ten years. He hates it, but at least it allows him to go on autopilot enough to lean forward and hiss across his kit to Freddie. “Listen, okay? I know you’re new to this school and you don’t really get how things work here, but we have a system. There is no way in hell our director is ever going to allow a combo with only the rhythm section. It’s just not gonna happen. He’ll say we need at least one solo instrument.”

“We’re all solo instruments if we try hard enough,” Freddie hisses back, adding a little grace note flair onto his most recent iteration of the never-ending piano riff. Their director glares at him.

“Not in his eyes,” Roger mutters. “All the horns, they’re solo instruments. The flutes, the saxes…he won’t let us have a combo unless we have one of them. How about that? You fancy Paul over there being thrown into the mix as soon as we ask permission to join up?”

“So we don’t get permission,” Freddie says. “We do it our own way. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be jazz. We could do—”

“Mr. Bulsara!” the director yells. Paul stutters in his solo and then bravely keeps going. “I hope you’re not planning on chatting up the drummer for this whole rehearsal!”

“No, sir!” Freddie calls back cheerfully, not missing a single beat. Behind Brian, John huffs out a laugh.

“Taylor,” the director snaps, still glaring at Freddie’s back suspiciously. “You’re dragging.”

“Sir,” Roger says curtly.

Brian turns around and shakes his head, exasperated. John laughs and kicks Roger’s chair lightly.

Bastard. He knows Roger would upend his stool if he had his feet free.

“What was he saying?” John whispers.

“You’re really gonna ask me to recite that shit to you?” Roger asks skeptically.

Blessedly, Paul finally wraps up his solo. Roger plays him out with a few snare hits that are probably just this side of too forceful.

“Taylor!” the director shouts again.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, and Freddie shoots him a grin. “It got away from me.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

Roger ducks his head, keeping time as quietly as he’s able. He’s just getting into that meditative place when a foot nudges his chair again.

“What was it?” John asks.

“It doesn’t matter, so leave it!”

“It clearly matters if you’re so worked up about it.”

The director cuts everyone off with a wave of his pen. “Prenter, if your intonation isn’t clean by Friday _so help me god—”_

“Spill, Rog,” John says, leaning closer. His face is half hidden by the hulking instrument between his legs and half hidden by his hair, the lucky bastard. Roger has to practically duck under one of his cymbals to stay out of the director’s line of sight.

“He just wants to start a combo, okay?” he hisses hurriedly. “I told him it’s never gonna happen.”

“It could,” John muses.

Roger looks at him in shock. “It could _not_!”

“If anyone could make it happen he could.”

“You’re not serious.” When John simply regards him with cool grey eyes Roger can feel his own jaw tick. “John, we’ve known him for two weeks.”

“And yet already he’s proven himself to be highly driven.”

“Like the rest of us aren’t?”

“Even better, then. That’s four driven people. We’ll be unstoppable.”

“Rog,” Brian murmurs in warning as the director raises his pen once more.

He just barely makes the first beat and nods in thanks to Brian as he does. The director would have his head otherwise.

Freddie seems to be aware of the tightrope they’re walking in the corner of the room. He waits a few more measures before turning to Roger again. “Listen, darling,” he whispers over the never-ending piano riff that in all honesty is starting to drive Roger insane. “We’re better than this. The four of us could make a killing elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” Roger huffs, beyond annoyed. “What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want. What about you, dear?” Freddie asks suddenly, turning to Brian. “What do you like?”

“What do I like?” Brian echoes, eyes flicking to Freddie’s mouth as if trying to see the words written there.

“Yes, what kind of music? You’re a bored jazz guitarist. What do you really like to play?”

Brian blinks. “A bit of everything, I suppose.” He goes silent for a minute, simple chord progression weaving between John’s and Freddie’s own. “I like rock,” he mumbles finally. “Hard rock.”

Freddie smiles. “Of course you do. I bet you and Roger listen together sometimes, don’t you?”

“I’m building a guitar,” Brian blurts. “It’s gonna sound like Beck’s. It’s gonna be amazing when it’s done. Roger helped the other day—”

“I helped hold it while the glue dried, Brian—”

“—and he used to play too. He used to have a band a few years ago. Did you know that?”

Traitor.

Freddie grins like he got the cream.

The bell rings and Roger all but drops his sticks against the drum skin. John sighs a tired sigh and immediately pulls his phone out, arms hugging the top of his bass so he can rest his chin on top of them. The room erupts into chaos as cases open and people quickly begin packing up, eager to leave.

“John,” Freddie calls finally.

“What?”

“What about you? Fancy joining our combo?”

“I think ‘rock band’ is more what you mean, Fred,” he replies, looking up with a tiny smile. “That’s what this is, right? You’ve got your drummer, your guitarist and your bassist. Does that make you the singer?”

“Would you rather do it?” Freddie challenges, but his grin is nothing but carefree.

John shrugs. “I can’t sing. And I prefer funk, if anyone cares.”

“We can make that work.”

“What,” Roger says eloquently, then frowns. “What? _Make this work?_ I was under the impression this wasn’t going to happen at all!”

“Like this isn’t exactly what you’ve wanted,” John says flatly.

“Like hell it is! In case you were wondering, _Freddie,_ ” he growls, “I can sing too, and I’m damn good at it! _And_ I play guitar, _and_ I play drums! If I wanted to be in a rock band I could do it all on my own!”

“Oh, come now,” Freddie chides. “Way to cut poor Deaky out of the mix.”

“Well, he can come. I don’t need the rest of you.”

“I don’t know if I want to go with you with that attitude,” John says.

“Oh, so you’re siding with him? You’ve known him two weeks!”

“I told you, I like him.”

“I guess so! Enough to betray a friend?”

“If you love him let him go,” Freddie starts.

“Cute,” Roger scowls. “You read that on the wall of your therapist’s office?”

Paul stops a few feet away, sax case in tow. “Freddie,” he says hesitantly. “Hello, guys.”

“Fuck off,” Roger mutters.

“Freddie, would you like to come have a smoke with me?”

“I don’t smoke, darling,” Freddie says with a charming smile. “I’d love to come with you, though. Think it over,” he directs at them all, and then he’s gone.

The rest of the room clears quickly as everyone heads to lunch. Only the three of them remain, Brian polishing his battered archtop with sure strokes and John still playing his game. It’s he who breaks first; with one last sigh he puts his phone in his pocket and hops off the stool, struggling to pick up his bass before lugging it toward the lockers. “I think we should do it,” he calls over his shoulder.

“Bullshit.”

“I genuinely do. It’s something to do, isn’t it?”

“That’s really what you want?” Roger asks skeptically. “To be the star of attention up on stage while girls throw their knickers at you?”

 “I don’t mind the attention if I have someone to share it with,” John tells him. “And I’m not some prude. I have a girlfriend. I did, at least,” he amends.

Brian looks up. “Did?”

“Yeah, we broke up this morning,” he says, finding sudden interest in Freddie’s abandoned piano bench. “Wasn’t going to work out.”

“I’m sorry,” Brian says, ceasing his movements. “God, that’s awful.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was just typical uni stuff.”

“Still, though. What was it? A year?”

“Ten months,” John says, still looking away and nodding to himself. “It’s alright. Like I said, music is something to do.”

With that he walks out.

Brian shoots Roger a reprimanding look and Roger holds his hands up. “What?” He asks. “What did I do?”

Brian just shakes his head.

“Don’t look at me like this is my fault. Now you’re gonna blame me for breaking the poor kid’s heart?”

“Roger,” Brian says, and his voice comes out softer than Roger was expecting it would. “I’m not blaming you for that. I just don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“Don’t tell me this isn’t what you want.”

“It’s not what I want,” Roger says flatly.

“We sound good together. You know that.”

“We sound alright together. Don’t stretch it.”

“You and me,” Brian starts, hazel eyes wide and earnest, and Roger pauses. “You and I just fit. We always have. Don’t deny that.”

Roger swallows. He can’t.

“And the minute Deaky first joined you knew he was right.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t feel one way or the other about Deaky when he first joined.”

“And you don’t like him now?”

“Shut up. I love Deaky _now_. You know that.”

“And you don’t like Freddie? You don’t think he fits?”

“He fits fine, but you know I don’t like him—” he cuts himself off when Brian raises his eyebrows. “Shut up. This is different and you know it. Don’t try to out-logic me.”

Brian ducks his head with a smile, going back to his guitar. “No. I know better than to try to use logic on you. You defy it every time.”

“Hey!”

Brian just shoots him a smirk, fingers finding the familiar knobs and switches without looking. He twirls them once and stands, facing his amp. “You wanna see something?”

“Depends. What are you gonna show me?” Roger says, crossing his arms and doing his best to patronize him.

It never works; Brian can always see through that shit, damn him. He sends Roger a grin that tells him he’s just as excited about whatever it is as Roger is. “I was reading an article about acoustic sciences and I came across something about hollow body guitars messing with amps in interesting ways. There’s something about the feedback—”

“Spare me the science,” Roger begs. “Just show me.”

Brian grins again, flicking one more switch before cranking the amp up until Roger can hear the crackle of dead air. Brian strums a chord, hard and loud and rough in a way he’s never allowed to do during jazz rehearsal, then swings his hips until the guitar is facing the amp head-on so the sound devolves into something between a growl and a squeal. Roger can see his lips moving as if he’s singing along or talking to himself and all at once he’s entranced: here is a new side of his best friend, a side he only rarely sees poke its head into the light, a side that’s hesitantly being cultivated and grown during off-hours at the woodshops and long nights with a soldering iron in his basement. Here’s the side that could take off and be something _more_ , just as they all have a side that could be something more.

Brian twists out of the line of the amp again and moves into a wailing solo, aggressive and mean like the ones he always makes Roger turn up on the radio. It doesn’t quite work. The guitar is too mellow, just a shade too dark for hard rock, but Roger can feel where the other sounds will come through. He can see where the melody is going, can trace out the rhythms and the basslines as if they’re visible in the air.

He can hear the vocals wailing along in perfect harmony until it’s unclear whether Brian is leading or following.

Brian lets the sound trail off in a dissonant growl finally, his cheeks flushed and his mouth quirked in a tiny boyish grin. “When my guitar’s done it’s gonna sound so much better. It’ll be so good, Rog. _We_ could be so good.”

“It’ll be great,” Roger says. He knows this at least.

“You and me, we’re good together.”

“I know.” He knows that, too. He and Brian just fit: their sounds, their personalities, their rough and soft parts fitting together and balancing each other out—they’re good.

“Whatever happens,” Brian says, that light of excitement and ambition that surrounds him undercut by the earnest shine of his eyes, “you and me, we’ll stick together, okay?”

“Of course we will,” Roger says. “Why would you even say that? We’ll always stick together.”

Brian nods, content. He sits down and begins polishing his guitar again, this time with a little more care.

Roger studies his profile from where he sits. He watches the way his hands move, slow and sure. He thinks of all the hours they’ve sat here in these two respective chairs, practicing or otherwise, surrounded by students, or sitting with John, or alone together. He can’t count those hours. He can count the ones with Freddie: ten. He knows that off the top of his head. Two weeks of class. Ten hours.

“You really like him,” Roger murmurs.

Brian looks up.

“Freddie. You really like him.”

“We don’t need him,” Brian replies, looking away again. “If you don’t like him we can do without him. We’ve got time to figure this out.”

Roger swallows. “Figure what out?”

Brian looks at him again, then turns his body to face him better. His hands still and his mouth thins in the way Roger’s learned long ago means he’s measuring his words before he releases them into the air. “What we’re doing,” he says finally. “Where we’re going. Whether you and me and a guitar and a drum kit is going to be a thing.”

“And a bass?” Roger asks.

Brian laughs. “And a bass, yeah. And maybe a Deaky, I suppose.”

Roger nods to himself. “We never talk about it,” he says slowly.

“No. I suppose we don’t.”

“We’ve never talked about this until today.”

Brian nods thoughtfully. “I supposed it’s long since due.”

Maybe. Or maybe it’s something else—maybe it’s the stars aligning in their favor. Maybe it’s the climax of John’s slow journey of opening up to the two of them after over two years playing together. Maybe it’s the final creation of a spark to set the kindling that Brian’s been stacking in his basement alight, making him glow from the inside. Maybe it’s Roger finally getting his head out of his ass and his sticks back on the skins of his kit in a way that means something.

Maybe it’s the arrival of a new kid in class two weeks ago.

“I’m glad you think we don’t need him,” Roger starts, “but maybe we do.”

“Roger, if you don’t like him—”

“No, it isn’t that,” he says quickly. “Well, maybe it is. Me and him didn’t exactly get off to the best start, but I guess what I’m trying to say is that doesn’t matter all that much. At least he got us talking about it. At least he was here to give us that push.”

“We can do what we want with it,” Brian argues.

“But you don’t want to. You like him.”

“It isn’t just up to me,” Brian says with an easy shrug.

“Deaky likes him.”

“It isn’t just up to Deaky.”

“Why do I feel like we’ve switched sides here?”

“Roger,” Brian says adamantly, “I want you to be happy.”

“Can’t you just make a decision easy for me for once?”

Brian smiles silently.

 “Fine,” Roger huffs, putting his sticks down. “Fine. I’ll go find him.”

He leaves Brian to polish his guitar, hurrying down the cramped hall leading to the music room and back into the school’s main corridor. He only has to turn a corner before pushing through the heavy oak doors into the dingy courtyard next to the parking lot. All the trees are dead and the grass is choked with wrappers and leaves. The air smells strongly of cigarettes, and he follows the smell around the corner of the building.

“We’re really going places,” he hears Paul’s stupid stuck up idiot voice gloat.

“Yeah?” Freddie replies. He sounds distinctively unimpressed, and Roger grins as he rounds the corner. “What are you playing, then?”

“Anything you want, doll.”

“Fred,” Roger greets, leaning against the bricks on Freddie’s other side. Paul shoots him a glare.

“Scram, Taylor,” he snaps.

“Careful,” Roger says smoothly. “A little birdie told me the guys in your combo think you could use some percussion. Keep it up and I might not be so inclined to help.”

Paul scoffs. “I’ve got a drummer buddy in Jazz 2. He could help me out if I really need it, not that I do. Just a good pianist would do us nicely.”

“That’s what’s gonna happen?” Roger replies. “Freddie, is that what you want? To _do Paul nicely_?”

“Depends on what other offers are on the table, darling,” Freddie replies primly.

“Join us.”

Paul recoils, throwing his cigarette butt on the ground. “Come on, Taylor. You and who else? Last I checked you didn’t even have a combo.”

“I’m starting my own,” Roger says coolly. “Me, Deacon and May.”

Paul scoffs. “No way in hell you’ll ever get that signed off. Besides, just because you need a pianist—”

“I don’t, actually. I need a vocalist,” he says, turning to Freddie and sending him a sweet smile. He gets an even sweeter one back. “If you’d be so inclined, that is.”

“If you want a vocalist talk to Vocal Jazz,” Paul snarls.

“Don’t need to. We already know who we want for it.”

“Seriously?” Paul says, looking at Freddie accusingly. “You can’t just take him. I had him first.”

“You didn’t, actually,” Freddie says kindly. “I never said yes to you, not that you ever stopped talking long enough for me to get a word in. The answer’s no, by the way.”

Paul splutters. “You—you didn’t need to lead me on!”

“How exactly did I lead you on?” Freddie asks with a patronizing frown.

“You acted like you were interested!”

“Did I?”

“I don’t think you did,” Roger pipes up.

“See, I thought I didn’t.”

“You fucking asshole,” Paul says. “Little bitch. I swear to god, I can make this class a living hell for you. Just you wait.”

“Paul,” Roger says, stepping closer to Freddie so he’s standing a step in front of him, “no offense, but you’re one of twelves sax players going against the fucking rhythm section. I don’t think you really understand how much havoc we can cause for you. Improving is really fun until the time signature and key switch every measure for no apparent reason.”

“Fuck the band,” Paul spits. “I’m talking about the school. You’re new here, _Farrokh_. You really think you hold that much sway? You really think everyone’s going to love you when you’re no longer the pretty new girl in town?” He steps closer. “I could—”

A large hand meets his chest, shoving him back. “That’s enough,” John says, stepping forward. Roger is pretty sure he’s never been happier to see his dumb lanky teenager limbs in his entire life. He may be a wiry thing now, but his growth spurt has put him an intimidating two inches above Paul and Roger observes that fact with glee. “Get the fuck out of here, Paul. He said no.”

“This isn’t over!” Paul screeches.

“Pretty sure it is,” John replies.

Roger watches Paul scramble away in satisfaction. “What brings you out here, Deaks? That sour Prenter stench?”

“Smoke break,” John says with a shrug.

Roger frowns. “Didn’t know you’d taken it up.”

“Have we got a combo?”

Roger looks to Freddie, who nods.

“I guess I won’t have time to let it become a habit, then,” John says with a lopsided smile. “Is Brian in?”

“Oh, he’s in. Three guesses as to what our director will say about all of it.”

“If that’s the end of jazz band then it’s the end of jazz band,” John says. “He either lets us practice together or he loses his entire rhythm section in one go. I don’t think he really has much of a choice in it.”

Roger smiles. “It’ll be a shame. I liked jazz band.” John snorts, and he grins. “No, really. I did. It built a lot of character. It’ll be a shame to see it end.”

Freddie laughs then, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders as the three of them head back toward the building. “Oh, darling,” he says, raising a platform heel backward as he walks to kick Roger lightly in the butt. “Believe me. We’re just getting started.”

**Author's Note:**

> I might turn this into a series? I don’t know. Let me know what you think!


End file.
